


Contagion

by chamekke



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Darkfic, F/M, Het, M/M, Slash, Zombiefic (if you squint), dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamekke/pseuds/chamekke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam thinks someone is a zombie. He may not be entirely mistaken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contagion

**Author's Note:**

> Sam/Gene slash, dub-con, and a bit of coarse rope. This was first posted to [](http://community.livejournal.com/1973flashfic/profile)[**1973flashfic**](http://community.livejournal.com/1973flashfic/) on 2010-05-14 as part of the [zombies challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/1973flashfic/tag/zombies%20challenge).

_When you fish for love, bait with your heart, not your brain._  
\- Mark Twain

* * * * *

Sam slips away from the Railway Arms so silently that Gene doesn't notice. And when he does, he thinks nothing of it; the evening is still young, after all, so more likely than not it's just Sam being broody. Gene stays for another two hours of booze and card games, and if he feels like having a fag or three, at least there's no picky-pain about to complain about the second-class smoke, or whatever the hell it's called.

Gene wanders unsteadily out to the car, more than a little drunk, and drives home very carefully. It wouldn't do to get into an accident. He finds Sam's lecture about the dangers of drink driving even more tiresome than the one about passive smoking. (As though there's _anything_ passive about DI Tyler.)

The house is silent when he gets in. He fumbles with the lock, trying to be quiet. It's not like Eleanor to go to bed this early, not before eleven-thirty at least, but perhaps she has one of her migraines; he thinks it might be around that time of the month. Gene lets himself in and ascends the stairs slowly, then puts his head around the bedroom door to see if Elly has already gone to bed.

What he sees, instead, is Eleanor in her silk dressing-gown, bound to a chair with rope, her mouth gagged with Gene's old regimental tie. And across from her, seated on a chair, is Sam Tyler, a gun loosely clasped in his hands. His expression is calm enough but his knee is bouncing up and down, bim-bim-bim, in a rapid jig of agitation. If the hostage scenario hadn't already suggested that something was desperately wrong, Gene thinks, Sam's utter lack of physical control would have done the trick.

"Elly!" Gene gasps, and then, as Eleanor shoots him a pleading look, "Tyler! What the hell are you playing at?"

Sam produces two sets of handcuffs and throws them on the bed. "Cuff your right hand to the headboard," Sam suggests, as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

Oh, he looks bad. His breathing is jerky, Gene now sees; his chest is going in and out like a pair of punctured bellows. Even across the room Gene thinks he can make out the dilated pupils, turning Sam's hazel eyes to black.

"What's this all about, Sam?"

Sam stands and points the gun between Elly's terrified blue eyes. "Do it."

Gene obeys. Sam unties Eleanor and gestures with the gun, indicating that he wants her to cuff Gene's other hand. Her hands are shaking as she locks the other cuff into place. Gene flexes his arms, can't help it, and the headboard rattles but holds; it's a solid thing, hardwood, and it's not going to break however much Gene wishes it would.

Next, Sam orders Elly to tie Gene's feet together. The coarse rope itches against Gene's ankles. Then Sam pistol-points her back to the chair and very carefully ties her up again. He goes across to the bed to check Gene's feet, frowning at Elly's technique on the rope, and tightens it until Gene is gritting his teeth with pain.

Then Sam leans into Gene's face, his eyes blazing.

"I need to know how many people you've infected."

"What?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

Gene has always been aware of Sam's moods, his precarious body chemistry, his strangeness. But despite Annie's whispered confidences, he has never truly believed his DI to be mad. Now he's having second thoughts.

"I don't know, Sam. Tell me."

Sam's tone is patient. "You're a zombie. You've been infected. You, in turn, must have infected others. I want to know whom you've infected."

Gene laughs. Sam's expression has become so mild now, Gene is thinking that this must be some daft species of prank. Perhaps Sam was dared into it by Ray; perhaps Elly was in on it. A good laugh all round on the Guv. Any moment now, they'll both call April Fool, and Eleanor will put on the teakettle.

But a split-second after Gene laughs, Sam strikes him across the face with the butt of his revolver, brutally and without warning. Gene's blood suddenly turns to ice. He feels a hot trickle running down his cheek.

"You're a zombie," Sam says again, more loudly. "You've infected others. Probably most of the members of our team. I want their names."

Elly's eyes are terrified. Gene suppresses a spasm of pure panic and finds his voice. "Sam, don't be a fool. I'm not a zombie. There's no such thing as zombies. And if there were - for Christ's sake, look at me, do I look like one? I'm pink and healthy and breathing. No flesh dropping off, and I can still string together a sentence."

Sam is staring at him, and Gene continues. "When you were at the Arms, did anyone mess about with your drink? I think, this idea you've got, this mad idea - you've probably been drugged. It's hardly the first time -"

"Shut up and listen," Sam says, his voice cold. He points the gun at Gene and cocks the safety. "If you don't give me the information I want, I'll kill you. And - " He motions towards Elly. "Her as well. Her, first."

Gene realises that the situation is too dangerous, too unstable. Without considering, he says the first thing that comes to mind. "Okay, Sam, you've got me bang to rights. I'm a zombie. But - look - Elly isn't. I haven't infected her. You can let her go."

Sam rolls her eyes. Suddenly he seems so familiar, so picky-pain _normal_ , that Gene's heart clenches. "Don't bullshit me. No way she's not infected. You've been with her every night. She can't possibly be clean."

"Sam, you don't understand. Women are _immune_. The zombie disease is carried, what do you call it, on the why chrome."

" _Chromosome._ "

"Yeah. That thing. It's like - what you said about sport. Elly can't fathom cricket, she doesn't understand the essentials of the game no matter how often I explain 'em. And being a zombie, it's like that. She can't catch it 'cause she's female. I've been with her for what, how long since I became a zombie…"

"Two weeks."

 _Jesus._ "Two weeks, right, and it just doesn't take. She's human, she's staying human." Gene takes a breath. "Let Elly go, Sam, please. She's harmless. She didn't even know about me till now. Just look at 'er."

Sam turns to look at Elly, who is wide-eyed and hyperventilating under the gag. He cocks his head, considering, then swivels back to look at Gene.

"Why haven't you eaten her, then?"

Gene keeps his eyes fixed on Sam's, trying to sound sincere. "I haven't the need."

"Whom have you killed so far? Where are their bodies?"

 _Whom._ Sam may be completely round the twist, but evidently he's still fussy about his grammar. "It's just a myth about feeding off people's… brains and that. We - don't need that to survive."

"Then what?" Sam's voice rises in pitch. "What do you eat?"

"I'll tell you everything. On one condition: if you release Elly. Then I'll tell you everything you want to know."

Sam considers carefully, his eyes flicking between the two of them. He rises, walks over to Elly, and stares hard into her face. Then he _sniffs_ her. She stiffens in terror. Time passes, perhaps ten seconds, but it feels like forever. Until Sam walks round to the back of the chair, oh so casually, and begins to untie her.

Gene closes his eyes for a split-second as the relief washes over him. But this Sam is unpredictable, so he opens his eyes again, stays focused and wary.

* * * * *

_Over the months, Gene has called into question Sam's masculinity, his sexuality, his paternity, and his intelligence - sometimes all in one breath._

_But never Sam's sanity._

_Gene has always been careful to avoid that topic, although he couldn't have explained why._

_Now he knows._

* * * * *

Sam is murmuring quiet apologies to Elly, saying in a gentlemanly way that he regrets having manhandled her, that it was an error of identification. He tells her to gather her clothes, which she does. Sam allows her to go to the lavatory to change, preserving her modesty. Gene hears her urinating, imagines the fear that she must be feeling right now. The toilet flushes and the door opens to reveal Elly, fully clothed and trembling. He watches as Sam escorts her out of the room, hears their footsteps going down the stairs. Another murmur, and then Gene hears the snick as Sam closes the front door and sets the deadbolt in place.

Sam is alone when he reappears in the doorway. Glowing with manic energy, mind you, but blessedly without Elly. Gene breathes a silent prayer of gratitude.

Then Sam's eyes shift down to Gene's crotch and stop there. "What the _fuck_."

Gene's trousers are hiding an erection not at all well. Gene clears his throat. "It's from _fear_ , Sam. It's hardly unheard of, as I'm sure you know. A perfectly normal reaction to being threatened with a gun by my own DI." Normally Gene wouldn't admit fear, but this happens to be the truth, and anything's better than giving his insane DI some even madder ideas about his being a poofter.

Sam rubs his eyes and sighs. "All right. So tell me, _zombie_ , how this all works."

All the while, Gene is listening. He had thought he heard Eleanor's high heels clip-clopping down the street a few moments ago, but there's nothing now. She's taken refuge with a neighbour, more likely than not. But it's very late; perhaps she's heading for a phone box instead? The nearest one is two streets off. Even if she rings the police immediately, it'll be some time before a car can reach her.

So Gene invents a story as quickly as he possibly can. "All right. Yeah, I'm a zombie, it's a fair cop. But the virus hasn't really taken hold yet, it's a slow infection, that's why the missus didn't know." He pauses, straining to hear any sign of Elly, of sirens or commotion, but there is only silence. "And we don't eat brains, Sam. We'd die out right fast if we only ate that. Given how fond this country is of re-electing that twat Heath, you can see we're running out of brains right quick."

"So what do you eat? Human flesh?"

"Uh… yeah." Gene tugs again, pointlessly, at a handcuff. "People flesh. You know… meat. Thighs… thighs are good."

Sam frowns and looks across at Gene's thighs, then down at his own. Gene wonders if he should have chosen a better example.

"But I'm not there yet," Gene adds, inspired. "I'm still eating my meat and two veg. Maybe in another fortnight or so, I'll be ready to move on to the real thing, but…"

"Who bit you?" Sam asks next, evidently satisfied with the question of zombie diet.

"Some kid," Gene invents. "I found him messing about with the Cortina. Little tyke of six or so. Gave him a gentle clout on the head, and the little shit _bit_ me. Didn't think anything of it at the time. No idea who he was, where he went. But I reckon it was him."

Unbelievably, Sam fishes a notebook out of his pocket, then a biro. He clicks the pen to attention, then inquires crisply: "Description?"

Gene reflects that he has to tread very carefully now. "Well, like I said… a boy. Six or seven. Red hair. Eyes, I didn't notice, but they looked kinda dead. And he had a scar across his right cheek. Big long one. And he was wearing a Manchester United strip. And he spoke with a stammer." He added, as an afterthought, "I think he might have been visiting from London… he had a bit of a Cockney accent."

Sam looks down at his notebook and frowns. There is a pause, then: "Who else is a zombie? Whom have you bitten?"

Gene casts around frantically for people who would be difficult targets, or at least, wouldn't be much missed. He is very tempted to throw out Rathbone's name, perhaps Litton's for good measure. Surely it couldn't hurt…

"Who else?" Sam shouts. "Who on our team?" The agitation is back again, and the involuntary bobbing of the knee.

Gene stalls, then offers: "I 'aven't bit anyone yet. I kinda… _gummed_ Litton, last week but I didn't break the skin so I'm quite certain he's no more a zombie than he's ever been." When Sam glowers at this, Gene adds, "Look, I've had to be careful, yeah? Don't want to infect my men too soon, much as I fancy the idea. I want to do my job as long as I can. People start disappearing, or gnawing on each other's arms, uncomfortable questions get asked."

There is an uncomfortable pause. Sam looks at the gun, then at Gene. He places his notepad and pen on Elly's chest of drawers, neatly and in parallel. Then he picks up the revolver and flicks off the safety.

"You are a monster," Sam says flatly. "And you have to die."

Gene realises that although odds are that Elly is safely out of range now, he himself is most definitely not.

"Sam," he says quietly. "Listen."

"What?" Sam says, not looking up from the gun.

"Everything I just told you… is a lie. I'm not a zombie. Never was."

Sam's head jerks up. "I don't believe you."

"I'm telling you the truth now. I only lied to you before so you'd let Elly go. I reckoned if I said I was… one of those things, you'd think I was telling the truth about her and would let her leave." Gene adds, as an afterthought: "And she's not one either. That part was always true."

"You're lying now!" Sam's body is shaking with emotion. The news isn't going over well.

"No. I'm being honest." Gene has a moment of inspiration. "Look… you're a policeman. Take a look at the _evidence_. Where's the proof that I'm a zombie? Where's the flesh dropping off? Where's the stink of decay?"

"You said you were bitten too recently to show the signs."

Shit. Gene _had_ said that.

"Well, I lied about that. I lied about the bite, too. Go on, look me over. See if you can find a sign of a bite anywhere on my body. Find some _proof_ , Sammy-boy, before you take the definitive step of blowing my brains out."

* * * * *

Sam has decided that it couldn't hurt to look for signs of zombiedom; must be the stick-up-the-Hyde-arse copper in him, Gene thinks, always looking for evidence. He runs his hands clinically over Gene's face, neck, hands, and observes that Gene's skin is clammy and pale.

"It's fear," Gene says honestly. And then, because he can't believe he just admitted that, "Or it's 'cause I've been bound to this bed for the last half-hour, and I'm catching a chill!"

No reaction to this. Sam's looking for signs of decay, evidently - cracking skin, body parts falling off - but frets when he finds none. However, he does stop to sniff at Gene's shirtsleeve, then wrinkles his nose and rolls the sleeve back. The skin underneath is unmarked, and Sam scowls. "Why do you smell so bad, then?"

Gene almost laughs. "It's Chris's doing. He sicked up on my arm earlier after drinking three shandies on a dare." Then, off Sam's stare, he adds: "Check me over well, Sam. I'm not a zombie, I don't have any of the marks. If you look at every inch of me, and you don't find anything, then will you believe me?"

Sam's answer is to reach down and rip Gene's shirt open. His chest is exposed, but that's all; his arms are still trapped in the shirtsleeves. Sam casts about the room and finds a pair of pinking shears. Snip, snip, and he slices quickly through the fabric of the sleeves, so that the shirt hangs in ragged strips.

This done, Sam works his way across every square inch of Gene's torso, studying the skin methodically. He sniffs a few times, but evidently without noticing anything sinister. Gene watches silently, wondering at the gentleness of those hands, their precision and deadliness.

Then Sam unbuckles Gene's belt and hefts everything south in one go: Gene's trousers and pants are suddenly pooled around his ankles. Sam looks at his belly, indicates to him to roll his body sideways so that he can check Gene's buttocks. He looks clinically at Gene's cock, lifts it to examine the underside, then his balls. If Sam notices a sudden stiffening in those areas, he's either too polite to say anything or (more likely, Gene thinks) too drugged to notice. Evidently it's an all-clear for Gene's genitalia, for the scrutiny continues down Gene's thighs, his knees, his calves. Gene feels Sam's deliberate fingers on his knees, turning his legs outward, and shudders with something closer to arousal than fear.

"I'll have to cut off your trousers to look at your ankles," Sam says, and Gene breathes a sigh of relief. Snip, snip, snip, the trousers are gone and so is the rope binding his feet. Now the only thing between him and Sam are his socks.

But Sam comes to attention, as rigid as a pointer spotting fallen prey. "What's this then, _Gene?_ "

He indicates the skin around Gene's ankles, reddened and roughened by the coarse rope.

"That's where you bound me," Gene says, matter-of-fact. "It's broken the skin."

"That's where you were _bitten_ ," Sam retorts.

"Sam! It's only abrasion. - Sam?"

"You told me to find proof," Sam says, picking up the gun again. "And I've found it."

He aims at the point between Gene's eyes. Gene feels a sympathetic throb between his eyebrows, as though Sam has already fired the bullet and it's drilling its way through his forehead, very softly, and in slow motion.

* * * * *

At this point Gene knows he's about to die. All he can think of - perversely, given how little time he's spent in his home - is that Eleanor won't be able to live in this place if he dies here, will probably have difficulty selling it too. He can picture the estate agent in his mind, the imaginary smarmy bastard, giving his widow the hard sell, forcing her to knock the price down for a quick sale.

"Listen," he says, almost begging. "Shoot me if you must, but in God's name find another place for it. You shoot me here, there's a bloody great mess for Elly to clean up. It's not fair to 'er, she doesn't deserve that. "

Sam sneers at this. "What, uncuff you and get you on your feet so you can try to fight back and escape? Not likely. I'm not _stupid_."

He raises the gun and holds it steadily. Gene stops breathing.

The gun wobbles. Then Sam's face crumples, like a four-year-old child's, and Gene watches in astonishment as his DI begins to sob. Sam is speaking, too, but it's hard to make out the words because his voice is choked with tears.

"Sam."

"…You're too much like him," Sam is saying. " Even now." He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, the gun still in his grip. "But I _have_ to do it. You'll kill innocent people if I let you live. I can't let that happen."

He looks at Gene helplessly.

"What do I do?"

* * * * *

Gene thinks of the various bits of wisdom that Sam has provided, over the weeks, on the subject of hostages. He never really listened, it's true, but he's still got his gut feeling to go on, so he asks the question he's been avoiding.

"Sam," he asks quietly. "What made you think I've become a zombie in the first place?"

Sam's eyes drop.

"You've been different," he mumbles. "You've been cold and distant. Gene could be hard, even cruel at times. But never unfeeling. He was a passionate man. Whatever you are, you're not who he was.

"I _know_ my DCI wouldn't behave the way you do."

Gene's heart sinks. Something has indeed changed, and Sam must have seen it, felt it. But to explain why would be more dangerous than confessing to being a monster.

* * * * *

"Two weeks ago," Sam accuses. The tears have stopped and Gene is aware that something has shifted. "That's when you joined the living dead. Your eyes became pieces of coal, your voice…" He shudders. "You were no longer my DCI… my _friend_."

"I _have_ changed," Gene admits. "At least - my behaviour changed." His voice sounds hollow. It's as though he's floating outside his own body; he feels like a pinprick suspended in vastness. This is the moment that he hoped would never come.

"So you admit it," Sam says wonderingly.

This must be a trigger of some sort, because the scene replays then and there, unfurling in Gene's mind like a silent film, the frames spilling one after another just a little too fast. He sees himself seated at his desk, a day like any other. Sam comes in, pleased about some bit of clever detection he's managed to pull off. Gene praises him by insulting him, as usual, calling him Einstein in a tone sour as lemons.

And several things happen in quick succession:

Sam grins back at him cheekily, his face lit with a smile of the purest happiness. As though - Gene thinks - the padlocked door of Sam's neurotic little heart has been flung unexpectedly open, and there's nothing but sunshine on the inside.

The room suddenly _becomes brighter_ , as though someone has flicked a switch and flooded it with light.

And Gene feels an answering glow somewhere deep in his chest.

Sam laughs and goes back to his desk, unaware that the universe has shifted. The light in the room leaves with him. Gene stares at his disappearing DI's back in utter shock. He knows what this means, just as clearly as if it had been written on the office wall in glowing letters, and it frightens the shit out of him.

So Gene stops looking at the light. From that moment on, he stays away from Sam as much as the job will allow. When Sam is near, he is monosyllabic and curt. He can tell that Sam is puzzled, but then Sam has never been one to press him too closely, so nothing is said right away. It's about a week before Sam marches in and demands to know what's going on. Gene stares back at him, acknowledging nothing.

"Your unsolved cases are going on, Tyler, and they're threatening to swamp us all if you don't get your lazy arse moving and work on them! _So piss the hell off!_ "

Sam stiffens with rage, opens his mouth to object, and Gene looks at him as coldly as he can manage. This does the trick, evidently, as Sam suddenly falters.

"Gene," he says uncertainly. "Have I offended you in some way? Did I say something to hurt you?"

But Gene has already moved to the door of the office and has thrown it open. Sam's got that expression now that has all the plonks in CID queueing up to mother him: the sad-puppy eyes, the furrowed forehead. But he walks through the door without another word, sits at his desk, and addresses himself to his paperwork. He keeps his head down for the rest of the day, not speaking to anyone.

And for the next week, Sam mostly keeps his distance. Once or twice he tries a tentative smile, tells a joke, but gets no response. He backs off again, each time, his shoulders sagging. Fortunately Gene is an experienced poker player, and he's sure that his own mask is perfectly impassive. _This is necessary for us both_ , he reminds himself. _It's the kind thing to do._

Only once does Sam try again. He bursts into the men's loo while Gene is there, and yells at him, frustrated: "Why won't you talk to me?" Gene looks at him dully, doesn't answer, and waits. Sam paces up and down, then throws a punch. It catches Gene on the jaw but, surprisingly, there is no pain. Sam seems to be expecting a fight, a blow in return, but he doesn't get one. He mutters a few more things, then stomps out. Gene is surprised at how little sympathy he feels; how little of anything he feels, actually. _Good_.

After this it gets even easier. Sam is sullen and withdrawn, hardly speaks to anyone except to snap at them. He's apparently given up altogether on talking to Gene. And tonight, when Sam leaves the pub early, Gene reckons that the hardest part is over.

Well. You live and learn.

Now Sam is armed and bloody dangerous. His drug-addled mind has put together the evidence and come up with an explanation that is altogether plausible… if you're mad enough to believe that zombies are real and that your best friend has joined the ranks of the undead.

* * * * *

"It was deliberate," he says to Sam now. "Nothing to do with your zombie rubbish. I wanted to keep you at a distance."

Sam's expression is disbelieving. "You'll say anything," he says.

"Really," Gene says. "I couldn't let you get close."

This elicits a frown. "Why?"

"Because," Gene begins. He's having trouble breathing. He starts again. "Because I felt. Because _you_ made me feel something I shouldn't."

Sam snarls and seizes Gene's hair, pulls hard so that Gene's head is yanked forward. "You fucking _zombie_ ," he growls. "Start making sense or I'm going to blow your diseased brains out."

"I _wanted_ you," Gene gasps.

"What?"

"I had… goddamn… _feelings_ for you."

And at this, Sam lets go of Gene and stares. "Are you saying," and now he seems to be laughing, for Christ's sake, the crazy murderous fucker, "Are you saying that you're attracted to me?"

Gene can't speak for a moment. _You bastard._

"I didn't want," he bites out finally, "to tell you. 'Course I know you and your poncy Hyde ways, you'd probably be all over sympathy and tea-biscuits. The hell with that. I didn't want your bleeding pity."

Sam's expression is purest astonishment. "You wanted me," he repeats.

"You coming into my office. Smiling and making the place light up. It was bloody annoying." Now Gene can't stop babbling. You _stupid great wet_ , he tells himself fiercely.

But Sam's voice is unexpectedly gentle. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Gene rolls his eyes. "I know I call you Gladys and arse-bandit and all that, but I also know you're a man. You like women well enough, and you've a real knack with the birds, I've seen it. You're no pansy. And - I'm not, either."

"Just… gay for your DI?" Sam is smirking now.

"Don't MOCK me!" Gene shouts. "It doesn't matter anyway! There's Elly to think of, and the team! There's my career, and yours! And there's _you_ , always rabbiting on about going back to Hyde, seemingly wanting to be anywhere but here!

"I can't bear to think on what would happen if I tried to _'say something'!_ "

Sam closes his eyes for a long moment, then opens them again. He comes over to the bed and sits down beside Gene. The bedsprings creak. For a long moment, he simply _looks._

"Gene," he says softly. "What makes you think I wouldn't want you?"

* * * * *

Gene's eyes widen. His mind grasps wildly for a reason, any reason.

"You've got that bird of yours, Cartwright," he says finally. "I've seen how you look at each other." But Sam is shaking his head.

"I love Annie," he says softly. "She's kind. She's beautiful. She's been… far better to me than I deserve. But… there's no deeper feeling. There's no _heat._ "

He looks at Gene forlornly, with those crazy eyes of his, and falls silent.

"See," he adds, "This is how I know you're not Gene. He'd die before he ever said… any of the things you just said. And it's why I have to kill you."

"I hardly said anything," Gene objects. Sam is still shaking is head.

"No. You've said a million things more than I ever expected to hear from Gene Hunt. And if I could ever hope - but this is precisely why I know it's impossible, why it's _unreal._ "

Sam seems to be calmer, more rational… but is he? Gene says carefully, "You have two choices. Seems to me that one is better 'cause it involves less risk. You can shoot me dead, here and now, and then when you've come down off this high of yours, you'll learn that you made a mistake.

_"And your life will be ruined._

"Or you can free me, I'll ring the station and call off the dogs, and then you keep a bloody close eye on me for the next few days. If you still think I'm a monster, you can have another crack at me. I swear it."

Sam is close to tears again. "I can't tell if you're the man I, I care about, or if you're the monster I'm put on earth to kill."

"Time will tell, Sam." He pauses, then added quietly, "I'm sorry I let you down."

Sam puts his hand across his eyes and takes a deep breath, one after another. Then he looks up.

"Prove it."

"How?"

"Show that you… want me."

Gene is both shocked and faintly amused. "You're asking me to, what, _perform?_ I'm still handcuffed, Sam, and it's you has me at an advantage. And frankly, I don't feel right about what you're saying. I'm still married. Elly and I don't have what you call _heat_ , and she and I had already been talking about a separation, and all this makes me think that doing anything else would be wrong. But I don't think it's right to … mess about before that happens."

"But how will you know whether it's the right decision?" Sam asks, appalled. "If you're basing it on what you _think_ your feelings are about me… but you're not sure?"

Gene presses his lips together and refuses to be drawn. Instead, he says, "What I _am_ sure of is that I need to take a piss, and soon. And if I don't, very soon this room'll smell worse than a civet in a blender."

"No." Sam shakes his head. "You stay right there."

This makes no sense to Gene until Sam bends over him and lands a feather-light kiss on Gene's forehead. Sam pulls back, looks into Gene's surprised eyes, then seizes his mouth, almost bruising Gene's lips with the ferocity of his own. Then he works his way down Gene's throat, his chest, caressing and licking.

Suddenly the last thing Gene cares about is his bladder. His erection is almost instantaneous and aching for release. Sam brings the tip of Gene's cock into his mouth and laps luxuriantly at it with his tongue, flicking at the underside. His fingertips are massaging Gene's balls, and Gene can't believe how good that feels. Then unexpectedly a saliva-lubricated finger probes very gently, one two, and slides into Gene's anus. The finger pushes upward and presses while Sam's mouth devours Gene with longer, harder strokes. His tongue is doing obscene things. Gene is almost berserk with arousal, his pelvis arching upward, and Sam follows him up, sucking and licking with evident enjoyment. It's only a few more seconds before Gene comes, inarticulately and gloriously and explosively, into Sam's mouth.

Sam chokes very slightly, but stays wrapped around Gene's cock as the blissful shockwaves gradually subside. Then Sam withdraws, licks his lips, and _grins_ across the expanse of Gene's body.

And the room is flooded with light.

"I thought you should know," Sam says, as though the universe hasn't just shifted. "What it feels like. And whether you like it - or don't. Before you go make any life-changing decisions you might later regret."

Gene can't help but notice Sam's own arousal, so evident in those tight trousers, and wonders dazedly if he is supposed to do something about it, and if so, what. But Sam only glances down at himself and laughs. "Don't worry," he says. "That can wait."

He tilts his head and adds, "I kept you handcuffed so that you wouldn't have a choice. No infidelity on your part. All my doing. If you want nothing to do with me... that's all right."

There is a pause.

Gene asks, softly, "Can you release me now, Sam?"

And Sam does.

Gene gets up, very stiffly, and pulls a blanket around himself. Sam helps him to his feet. For a moment Gene feels an impulse to embrace the man, to hold him tightly and squeeze the madness out of him. Instead he gives Sam one quick caress on the cheek, and Sam closes his eyes in response, as though praying.

Gene closes his eyes too, for a moment.

Then he picks up the phone to give CID the all-clear.


End file.
